These are all the people that I think are cool on NG
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It's sad to admire people over the internet. I'm not having any of that.

I've got a date today, and I can't be late, damnit.

So, I'm stuck in the heart of an LA traffic jam, with cars bumper to bumper and angry white men walking out of their cars and picking fights. Pitiful.

I whip out my cell phone and call my girlfriend.There is a dial tone. It is cut off by her voice.

"Hello?" she says.

"I don't think I can make it, there's some serious traffic over here." I reply.

"Well, I guess we're on the same boat then,"

"Wow, sounds like some kind of Chinese superstition crap"

"Probably, Jeff. Is there a fight happening over there?"

"Yeah,"

"Same here. Some army tool decided that he wanted to sermon a bunch of hippies. It's hilarious."

"From the looks of things, I don't think this date can pull through,"

"Probably. It's okay, we have a lot of time on our hands, I mean your job doesn't have awkward hours right?"

"Nope."

"See you later"

"You too."

The name Christie Hong flashes on the screen one last time, followed by a beep and the disappearance itself.

The sun's rays pierce through the thick windshield of my Bentley and force my eyes into a squint. The heat intensifies, as if there is some strange correlation between this one particular squabble occuring at my side.

There is an Asian man, worried out of his wits, deadeyed as this hulking behemoth of a black man argues with him. Apparently, he accidentally rear-ended the black man's car, which was a very posh looking Escalade. A prominent dent is on the rear bumper of the Escalade, with the pristine black pain on it interrupted by the noise formed by the dent. Scratch marks, crumpled metal, the works. There is an ocassional shove here and there, and it's obvious the black man is cursing, I mean his pride and joy was ruined. As the fight rages on, the sun increases its output by tenfold, with it culminating in the black pan pushing the Asian man down on the ground, with the heat making me fade in the confines of my car.

Fading away.

My soul washing out of this shell and flying on the other places.

Other places.

I am the eggman. I live alone in a cottage suspended above a quaint little village located in rural Europe. It rests on a perfectly circular conglomeration of branches forming an also circular hole, with a plaza situated below. The cottage consists of tightly packed together straw and mud, with a wooden shell on the inside to give it support, and the hole is in the middle, providing me with means to spy on these pathetic creatures called "humans."

Oh, how I dislike these so called "sentient beings". They are merely a caricature of the image they've been attempting to convey to us storybook creatures. They do not think for themselves, they do not have free will, they do not even have the mental capacity to decipher if whether or not their actions are logical. They are all controlled by the media, the hivemind of these scoundrels.

Ever since the dawn of computers and technology, my endless life has been fraught with a mere fraction of the magic I've experienced throughout the years. Humans used to be kindhearted and never made an act of violence towards me or any of my friends, we used to get along even, singing songs and telling stories by the campfire of life. But as time went on in its lumbering stride, change happened, and it happened hard. The people grew more and more violent over the years, their friendly gestures replaced with pitchforks. So, as a result I was forced to move my cottage. Ten years ago I was a mere 6 inches above the ground, and now I am one hundred feet up in the air.

It's been a very long time since I've lived properly. My shiny shell was once the center of everyone's attention, with an ever present grin of immense joy on my face and the finest clothing in town on my body. I used to walk the town with my wooden cane at my hand and the town's children at my knee, following me and trying to keep up, listening to my tales. I was all they had, and they were all I had. That feeling you get when you see a child smile and that you made that all by yourself is irreplaceable.

AND THAT'S ALL FOR NOW, FOLKS

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===|==|==

Yeah, my MWC9 entry for the month. A work in progress. This is like, the prologue.

I'm serious.

How are you all doing?

I'm fine today. Here's my favorite song EVER.

.
/* */
Okay guys, I've got to tell you guys a story, a fantastical one at that. Actually no, it's not a story it's more like a mindless rant going to nowhere, but I'll type and type and type anyway, just to kill some time before the Will Ferrell special of Man vs. Wild airs.

Well, lately I thought I've been finally shifting from an angry pessimist to a life-loving optimist, much like those sixteen year old moralfag-girls on givesmehope.com. It's because of all my time off of here that my outlook on life has gone better, which is sad. Not just sad, depressing in fact.

I mean, every day I'm away from you lot, I feel better about myself and how my life is going. All because I'm more dependent on actual social interaction than seeing text. I feel much more refreshed and relieved when I talk to other people in person.

But then, when I came back, the opposite happened. I started getting pessimistic thanks to seeing all the pathetic losers who post on the BBS with their "OH WATCHMEN IS TOO MATURE FOR YOU 13 YEAR OLD GO TO BED IT'S LATE" or "OH MAN THESE SHOES ARE UGLY PEOPLE WHO WEAR THEM NEED TO GET SHOT". Frankly, even if these two terrible quotes are figures of speech they sound so pathetic.

I mean, every visit here I see other pessimists, and I see them complain and whine about the most inane shit. I see people say "OH RAP IS RETARDS ATTEMPTING POETRY LULZ" or other kinds of moronic babble in hopes that they'd strike a chord in someone, sparking a brief flame war and feeding their ego after they win. The BBS is full of goddamned egomanics who can't stop touching themselves, morons who think they're special and highly intelligent, boring fuckers like the ones on facebook/twitter and naive people who are so awkward looking that you can't help but shed a tear at their naivety.

I keep telling myself day after day, "I've got to stop posting in the BBS" and yet I never bring myself to do it. Why? Because you nincompoops dragged me into all this. You pumped my ego and it hungers for more recognition and fame. You brought me into this endless whirlpool of failure and negative thinking. I blame you for all this, and I blame myself for letting this happen.

Maybe the jobless 20somethings who still live with their parents and have no friends IRL will give me a vivid enough message some time.

Maybe I'll stop being a tool.

Maybe I'll get more friends in real life.

Maybe I'll start using my cellphone more often.

Maybe I'll build my confidence up to use in order to get a girlfriend one day.

Maybe I'll just leave this stupid society one day.

Maybe.

I'm just walking here, in a straight line, man. This straight line, it's got nothing to it you know. I step forward, on and on with the road in front of me. In my pocket is of course, my wallet. I have all my important credentials in it, ranging from an ID card for the state of California to an arcade card, with all the points I've earned there. One thousand and eighty six points. One thousand and eighty six points of effort that could've gone somewhere more worthwhile.

I admit, I'm a nerd. In fact, I'm so much of a nerd that in a desperate attempt to live a little, I took up the life of a drifter. I packed all my things, bought a decent pistol-- a Walther P90 and I began a cross-state adventure into the unknown. There's of course, something else to this. I mean, a humble nerd doesn't just up and leave his life because he doesn't deem his day to day experience fun enough, right?

"Onwards to the deepest corner of the Earth."

That line suddenly struck me. Early into my adventure, I encountered another drifter, a native American, to be exact. He was middle aged, had wrinkles etched on his face, and a voice raspier than Lou Reed's. We only met for three minutes at a rest stop. After he uttered those words with a half smile and a half glare, he waved goodbye and I never saw him again.

I am still walking. The road ahead is barren and bleak. Cars whiz by with little thought to the humble drifter walking alongside them. His scruffy beard, beady blue eyes and bushy hair tell a sad tale. A tale too sad to touch the pure hearts of the children.

A sign stands in front of me. "10 Miles to San Diego" it says. I remember that place. I was born there. I lived sixteen of my eighteen aimless years on that godforsaken city. I went to a pathetic private school filled with sad, supremacist Mexicans. All the white people there were weak, and the black people were overshadowed by the Mexicans. Us Asians, we were at the bottom rung. Especially me, Jackie Hsu. What with my laughably struggled English and my penchant for all things Bruce Lee. I was a walking stereotype. A permanent constipated expression on my face, straight As, drives a Daewoo. My logic got the best of me, and as a result, I didn't take proper action. But today, I'm going to do back these... bastards.

But before that, let's go back a bit. Back to six years ago. I was a twelve year old lad, merrily chomping on his egg salad sandwich watching Will Smith and his wacky antics on Fresh Prince. My father spoke to me, we were alone in the living room, and his face had an unmistakable expression of anguish.

"Son, I've got to tell you something,"

"Yeah?"

"Well, remember those few months where everyday I came home with a gift from work?"

"Yeah, dad! I remember that BIG teddy bear you got me! I love it so much! I named him Mr. Sni--"

"I need it back, son."

"But Mr. Sniffy is my friend!"

"I need it back. That's an order." My father slightly raised his voice and developed a stoic expression as the sentence ended.

I was crushed at this point, and ran out of the house, tears dripping down my cheeks and staining my Nirvana tee shirt. I came to a sudden halt in front of two menacing men. Who pushed me aside and entered my home. I studied them for a moment then heard a struggle, then a bang.

The memory ended there, and I was tormented for the next five years. It turns out my father was deep into the underground drug trade circuit, and all those toys he bought me were laced with trace amounts of drugs. Mr. Fondle was no exception, he was even laced with a three pound bag of pot, selling for a mighty sum. In fact, that very day he was supposed to give it back to his higher officers; those two men. He had trouble finding it, and the men were hotheaded. After he tried looking for it, they shot him dead when he turned around to get to my room.

As an eighteen year old Asian boy, with a background of martial arts training and a fascination for guns and archery, my next move didn't take much thought. I stormed their residence, guns blazing. After a long year of searching for these ruthless bastards fruitlessly, and even dipping myself in the dirty puddle of the underground drug circuit, I've finally got them.

The steps where I approached their home took forever. I was ecstatic with the thought of getting my typical revenge. I loaded my P90, I picked up some grenades from my military friends and I just savored in the events of this day. I get to tarnish my soul with the burden of killing, I get to throw this pointless life away to be remembered for something actually significant.

No scientific discoveries, no groundbreaking philosophical thoughts to spread. Just a dark, pulsing tale of a clean cut kid suddenly murdering two gentlemen. This would be made even more twisted by the fact that I was a leader in my high school days and that they served their community often. Going to mass every week, donating to the poor, the works. My research told me they were as active as ever in the business though, and they organised a lot of killings as well. And they had a slimeball of a lawyer as well, who got them to jail for only a year for that brutal murder. They mucked around that crime scene and they had a self-defense plea. My father's violent, fabricated record didn't help either.

As I arrived at the doorstep, I pushed the doorbell. I heard a friendly call of "Who is it?" and I answered "cleaning service." The amiable looking black man in his forties answered the door, and I just waved my pistol in his face and pulled the trigger. A hole penetrated through his skull, then his brain and it hit a portrait of him and his colleague right in the middle. The smoke started to emerge from the barrel of my gun, and all the kindness I've kept in my heart vanished as the smoke did. The television was on, and there was breaking news of a building being hit by an airplane of some sort. That's two more deaths today.

The other man, a personable looking Mexican came running towards the doorstep. He spouted some Mexican balderdash and brought out a Glock. I raised mine.

And so, a standoff ensued. I pulled the trigger, the bullet pierced his skull just as it pierced the other man's and he grew limp and died. Blood stained their fine carpet, and I left. I left a different man, and my soul still doesn't have the justice it has sought for so long.

Then, another road. Another thousand and eighty six hours points of effort wasted.

So, I just recovered from a 40.1 C fever in less than 24 hours, is it a miracle?

double blank post

direct all your questions

HERE:

exjay126@live.com

thank you for your time

The fact that I worked on 3 stories for like, 25 days, with each of them having their own section, and ended up submitting one I only worked on for two days to the contest, a story I haven't even given an in depth review and revision yet.

Oh well, so much for all that work. Now I'm just going to wait for the next contest seeing my story is definitely not a winner.

And one other thing, after putting this off for a very long time, I've decided to disconnect from the community. And oh, disconnecting isn't "MAN THIS SITE SUCKS, BRB GOING TO LIVE, SEE YOU FAGS LATER HAHA" disconnecting is merely detaching one's self from absorption into this site. Emerging from immersion.

For example, say I'm not an outside type. In a coping mechanism, my mind attaches itself to this site, particularly this forum. The way there's tons of people here makes you feel like you're outside and communicating with other people, but in actuality this is merely a substitute, something to use when you're bored.

I've met many people on this site, and only a few have proven to be worth a lick or worth a moment's thought. I've also met a few who treat this place like a strange cult. My God, seeing people blabber on and on about this site like it's REAL LIFE is sickening. And one time I saw on a blog, it was called "The Book of Stickamism." I cried.

Basically, my point is that i'm detaching myself of all connection here, I'll post less and submit stuff less and i'll log on less. I'm going to treat this like a site and nothing more from now on.

It's about time.

It's about damn time I did this.

EDIT: RIP Billy Mays ;_;

One shot is all it takes they say. One shot to do it all, to finish it, one shot is all you need.

That's what they say.

My name's Samuel E. Rosenberg, I'm an architect, recently after a long line of working nonstop for a job I dislike and for a woman I don't love; I've decided to take a breather from all this chaos. So, I board a jet heading to anywhere and see where I'm taken. I read a short inflight magazine to help kill the time of the flight, and all I get is inane babble about a cult looking for their new leader. Absolute friddle this is. Just like the rest of the plane's services, ugly stewardesses, bad food and a pilot who can barely speak English. Fantastic.

The flight is brief, with the noise radiating from the planes turbines preventing me from having a proper sleep; My sleeplessness and hunger is interrupted by a crash.

The crash, as it goes by, makes little impact on my psyche. Seeing the exterior of the plane burn up from the window and hearing the desperate pleas of all the passengers was more bothersome than anything.

All this ends when the nose of the plane makes a soft impact on the surface of the water. A ripple is formed, expanding in size as the plane goes deeper and deeper, until finally it comes to a halt, with the planes cockpit area parting a rather large part of a shoreline of an island.

I disengage my seat belt and look at the mangled corpses of all my fellow passengers. Their faces all tell a story of their own, each having an individual expression of agony formed on the canvas of their face. I see blood smeared everywhere, with spatter formed everywhere in an erratic fashion. The air is tainted with the aroma of decomposition.

I scan the interior of the plane for other survivors, I find a child, whom I could not tell the gender of. I find a sleazy woman wearing skimpy clothing and an attitude to boot, and I find a large, bald man with a beard and a seemingly prosthetic arm.

I gather my companions and divert them to the exit of the plane, each of them have their own snide comments for me, the phase through me as I light a cigarette and inhale the smoke, exhaling it afterwards in a swift motion.

I step onto the face of the beach and make my own stains on its otherwise pristine face, the shape of my shoe is imprinted on it like spatter from a brush, and the other footprints I find are from other brushes.

I follow the footprints and find that the others have settled down on a particular spot down by the shore. I see that construction of a rudimentary hut and a fireplace is underway, and while the men are working I can see that my lady friend is busy catching some rays on a primitive beach chair, wearing nothing but her lingerie. I can see the crude shape of her breasts from here, along with the Coke bottle silhouette she has, "what a sexy woman" I think out loud, my words not reaching anyone but me and the scuttling crab burrowing a hole in front of me.

I take several steps towards the trio, and as I do so, two clouds part in front of me, summoning a small ray of light to highlight my arrival like a savior of sorts. Everyone's attention is directed to me.

I ignore their empty stares and keep on walking, my destination being the cargo hold of the plane, as it presumably detached during the crash. After a few strides I reach the cargo hold; I see that its edges are burnt up and several parts of it are dented and distorted.

I force open the door, and begin to rummage through the belongings of the deceased. I find a working Jericho 941 and several boxes of ammunition, I find a high-end laptop with all it's accessories and parts intact, and I find a hefty amount of food, ranging from a simple candy bar to several uncooked prime steaks.

Perfect, I say to myself, my voice echoing throughout the hold like how a fire spreads. I exit the hold, and carry my supplies over to the crew.

Predictably, they show no interest. They carry on their menial routine as I work, scouring as far as I can for supplies, while they construct that hut of theirs. What a poorly designed hut, It'd go down in a minute during a tropical storm. They should've asked for my help; the bastards.

A plane then disrespectfully flies above us, at an altitude where our small encampment can be seen even. I make a gun out of my hand and fire my imaginary bullets of resentment at them.

Night falls, and I've collected more than enough to keep us going for about half a year. The amount of food the other passengers were carrying is staggering, and the variety is endless. There's a box of Instant Ramen noodles, there's a crate of clothes and assorted canned goods and there's even live chickens. What isn't brought abroad, I wonder.

As I lay on a straw sheet shielding me from the jagged rocks and venomous insects on the surface my fellow survivors picked, I spot a dark, tall figure silently moving at the edge of our settlement. The way it moves is so... unnatural. The figure has an arched back and seems to have a flowing cape, which dances with the wind as it moves in a zigzagged pattern, it investigates our settlement by further arching its back until it looks like the letter C.

Sweat drips from my forehead as I see this. I make an attempt to alert my comrades but a dark, blackish gas is released in the hut, subduing me and sending me into a deep sleep.

As the darkness fades and the light is brought in, a great pain jolts me from my slumber and on my feet. I examine the interiors of where I am apparently held captive. Everything is of a clean, blank white color. From the chairs, the floor, the walls, our garments, and.. us. Strangely, our skin pigment has been altered to make us incredibly pale. I look into a mirror to my left, and my reflection scares me.

I see myself, but instead of a healthy pinkish white hue and flowing golden locks, I see myself, but my skin is unhealthily white, along with my hair, and I seem to have no irises or pupils, as all of my eyes are white. I open my mouth and see that my teeth no longer have a slight yellow tinge, and my tongue is no longer a few tones lighter than crimson, and the rest of the insides of my mouth are white. I also see that I am covered with a white garment, similar to that of a "Long John" stocking, except the fabric used is extremely comfortable and sensitive areas are padded.

I walk around, and see that my comrades are gone, and that I am solitary in this seemingly endless white room. I sit down, and think, noticing that most of my other bodily functions are missing. Such as a secretion of an odor or sweat, and the inability the burp, fart of even laugh. I notice my face is stiff and cannot express any emotion anymore. Too much things are running through my head; but the only thing I am certain about is that escape is necessary.

A sprint. A cycling motion done with my legs. Computer like precision and movement; so it seems that my bodily functions have been augmented, and my less than pertinent functions have been erased. I feel a little grateful to whoever has done this, but now is not the time to salute and patronize, now is the time to act.

I find an opening in the walls and take advantage of it, I keep moving down the hall and find a doorway. I apply minimal force and it swings open, the light seamlessly transitioning from the exclusively white room I was in.

Faster. Faster.

I reach where my settlement used to be, and find that it is still there; untouched. Even more to my surprise is that I see my fellow survivors still sleeping in it, not a care in the world as usual.

I see my Jericho 941 lying on the ground, with the boxes of ammunition I found along with it still there as well. The sun reflecting on it, and how it is positioned with the bullets creates an image I will never forget. This is the day I could finally live, I guess.

"Finally a use for Baby Eagle." I tell myself, my words reaching no one but myself.

Walking around the island, hearing the somber tweets of the birds flying around and seeing mystifying billowing smoke emerging from not too far away are what I notice first.

I ready my gun, and prime it for use. I stick in some bullets in the magazine and hold it directly in front of me, pointing to whatever hazard lurks beyond me. My arms in a 90 degree angle, perfectly straight and perfectly steady. Perfect to kill with.

A dozen rows of the shadowy figure appear. Each of them pulling down their hoods and revealing a mangled face, with either missing teeth, missing eyes or a missing nose. Each one was broken in its own special way, with an ever threatening expression slapped on it, all with the same message of death.

"Showtime."

I fire a series of shots at the oncoming onslaught, one bullet for every creature in the row. Reloading once for every row taken down. The sound of the bullet ejecting and the gunpowder activating happen a few milliseconds before the sound of the bullet hitting the flesh and bone of the foul beasts was ultimately satisfying for a curious soul like mine.

I run out of ammunition and hold my last stand.

I release a flurry of punches and kicks. I use the arched back of one of the beasts as a jumping pad and let loose a flying kick towards a trio of them. I knock two heads together and do all sorts of other brutal deeds to them, my humanity is put into a corner after every creature I kill.

I take them all out one by one, and walk on over to the collection of corpses. I step on them, my feet applying the correct force to usher either a splash of blood or a crack of bone.

Anger and confusion run amok in my head, controlling my actions. I march on forward, unopposed, finding nothing but a book. A book instructing me to what must be done and when.

"Chapter one. Finding the King.

Aghast! Vin trommen ent Fermiccht

Dhast dule En Von Wriemmer

Furt Van Bron Klisner

The King runs among us

The King creates immeasurably large art

The King is here

The King will arrive at June 18th in the year 2031

Once the King is captured, one must chop his mortal soul

And prepare him for use

One must dye the entire King a ghastly shade of white

And remove all human bodily functions

And replace with robotic

Once is done

Get King and use heavenly vessels of death

King will be power source

Will create new society

Religion will be severely implemented

Freedom will not exist"

One shot is all it takes they say. One shot to do it all, to finish it, one shot is all you need.

Then, bang.

I just had the best idea. I'll make a comedy, but it will be severely rooted from Filipino culture, so a google here and there of the stuff I mention will do you good. Or you can ask a Filipino guy! He has to be from the Philippines though. Or you can ask me. I sure hope this won't be lost in translation! Also more comprehension help for you:

.
/* */
You know? Now you know!

OK, title: "The Legend of Datu Puti"

"Something is coming." Rajah Silver Swan softly whispered to the rest of the council. His eyes were shut with terror. He was quivering with fear and his soul heated the entirety of the tribal dwellings. He was ablaze inside, an inferno was raging within him, his visions were all of an ominous kind. All he could see was the butchering and slaughter of his tribe mates. His mind was drip with blood and despair.

Exhausted, he fell to the floor. The knowledge that the last remaining members of the Yunno tribe were in terrible danger of extinction was too much for any man to bear.

The council was confused at this shocking news. The Yunno tribe were all worried, all of their territory was abuzz with talk of death and sorrow. Only Datu Puti was unfazed by the news. He merely stood calmly in front of the elders, asking questions. His curiosity only increased when his questions were answered.

The elders, desperate about this news of a coming omen, decided that they needed their secret weapon to be extracted from its holding point. This was no easy task though, for their last resort was entrenched deep within the caves of the island of Bayag-Ra. This island was wrought with dangers and only the criminals of the tribe were brought there to meet their doom. No man has come back from it alive, it was a deathtrap, and only the mightiest of the mighty could make it deep enough to reach the lake of the Ku-Pal, and it was simply impossible to reach the eliptical cavern of Pek-Pek.

Determined to defend the lives of his fellow tribe men, and possibly even his country men; Datu Puti hastily accepted this challenge, for his love of his country burned with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns. "A threat to the country is a threat to Datu Puti", that's what he'd always say.

And so, Datu Puti bid farewell to his tribemates, his kisses and pats on the shoulder burning and causing so much inner peace due to everyone's knowledge that he's going to be gone for ever, and that they're all going to die in a raze caused by unknowing foreigners looking for new goods to sell for their own selfish desires.

Datu Puti boarded his canoe at the crack of dawn, with him he brought his trusted spear; carved from the wood of the oldest tree in the Yunno territory, with a spearhead made from the stone that struck the very first leader of the Yunno dead. His spear was the most valuable item he had ever held in his hands, and after years of protecting it from danger, he can finally use it.

Datu Puti also brought two sackcloths of his village renowned vinegar and the grinded and fried skin of the fattest boar of the village for sustenance.

Stroke after stroke, the paddles striking the surface of the water, making ripples and making blemishes on the otherwise pristine and still water. The village was drifting farther and farther away, symbolizing how Datu Puti was inching away from his old life of idly standing by all the time, occasionally hunting but never taking any action, and he was moving towards his new life of constant thrills and spills; symbolized by the island of Bayag-Ra.

Time seemed to take a breather as Datu Puti was paddling, strokes seemed to pile up into an infinite number. The vast sea seemed to have no end in all directions, all that could be made out was the searing shape of the sun and the endless expanse of clouds above.

Datu Puti seemed to drift off into a slumber; his body paddling and paddling while his mind dozed off. Datu Puti thought he would be able to finally get some rest, until his canoe dug itself into the face of the shoreline, making a mark on the pristine beach, with the paddles making two smaller marks. Datu Puti surveyed his surroundings, he found only sand and a cave. Datu Puti thought he was close, but deep inside he knew that he was far away from the end of the road.

Step after step he headed towards the cave. The indoors were dark and cold, with a scent of death filling the air. The holes on its roof provided explorers an eerie blue-green light throughout the entire cave, with it darkening to a pale shade of gray at night. Datu Puti headed forward unopposed, meeting a downward slant leading deeper into the cave, with a small, seemingly artificial tunnel to the right.

Trusting his instincts, Datu Puti decided to enter the seemingly manmade tunnel to his right, and after heading a few feet inside it, he heard a deafening roar akin to that of a middle-aged woman in labor. After stopping dead in his tracks, he traced the sound to the downward slant he encountered a few minutes before.

And then a raging crowd of harpies came from it, crushing anything in their path. Rocks turned to pebbles and pebbles turned into sand, It was a train of destruction, and it was a train Datu Puti luckily dodged. Sweat dripping from his brow and slowling entering the confines of his mouth; letting out a plethora of different types of saltiness in his mouth; Datu Puti needed a break.

He took a few careful steps, and he found a patch of soft soil; perfect to have a brief break on. Datu Puti sat, and started to consume the foods that he brought; the combination of the crisp of the pork rinds and sourness of the vinegar jolted him to a peak level of alertness, alert enough to catch an oncoming dart with his bare hands.

Feeling nourished and ready for the rest of the challenge, Datu Puti stood up, brushing the particles of dirt collecting on the underside of his sackcloth pants.

Suddenly, the soil started giving way and started crumbling; revealing an endless abyss that awaits at the bottom. Datu Puti did not hesitate, as he fell deep enough, he grabbed onto the ledge, and in a burst of energy and focus, brought himself back onto the hard, rough rock surface scarring his feet.

With a chip of luck on his shoulder, Datu Puti Trudged on, further penetrating the cave. Each step he took was more certain than the last, his confidence was high like his spear, and his mind was clear like his vinegar, Datu Puti was in his prime, a very perfect time to do such an impossible task, he told himself in his head; his accented baritone voice echoing in his head over and over, a fruity scent slowly filling the cavities of his nose and an eerie blue glow filling his line of sight.

Datu Puti just reached the Vi-Twa'ar Lake. Skeletons and rotting corpses littered around the cave, all of them posed as if reaching out to the lake, their final wish being a drink from the lake. This lake was highly sought of, for not only could one drop of it nourish a whole tribe for a day, but it augmented everyone's structure to a point where they were at a level far beyond their body's programmed prime. This lake was magical, and it was the only thing that could activate the tribe's secret weapon for battle.

Datu Puti knew the corpses were there for a reason, and it wasn't only because they were all unprepared commoners with no hunting experience, but because they have not drunk the lake's water yet. Swiftly, Datu Puti approached the shore of the lake, crouched down and sipped the tangy sky blue water, energizing him and making him further alert and aware. He felt a jolt of strength surge through his body akin to that of how energy surges down to the ground in a lightning storm.

Making out a faint buzzing and scratching noise, Datu Puti got up, his eyes surveying the surroundings, looking out for any threats, one of which was the legendary hive of Jo'olli-bees, one sting being as poisonous and hazardous as a snake's bite. The buzzing grew louder, and Datu Puti knew that he was to face the Jo'olli-bees.

Datu Puti then readied his spear, his grip hard and sure, he was ready for anything.

Then, 5 bees, each of them the size of an infant appeared. Their fur was that of a blood red, their eyes and stripes being a pale white akin to that of a person drained of all his blood. Datu Puti felt a slight tingle of fear, but then, his heightened reflexes and adrenaline thanks to the Vi-Twa'ar had made him even more of an able combatant, able enough to dispatch all of these foul beasts with ease.

One of them headed for him straight on, with its stinger pointing directly towards him, but Datu Puti did a roll forward, pebbles slightly digging into his skin as his naked back moved across the ground and raised his spear high, out stretching his arms and stabbing the bee right above him, showering him with its insides; as if basking in it's bloody demise. His momentum was piling up, he headed on for the other units.

One was flailing around the air, it coming closer and closer to Datu Puti, it's erratic pattern making it difficult to hit, but Datu Puti did so anyway. And he did the same with the rest of them, their bodies littering the shoreline of the lake, giving it an even bleaker and deadlier atmosphere; the way the blue light reflected onto all these lifeless bodies was ultimately spooky. A chill surged through his body, causing a moment of immense uneasiness.

Datu Puti then took his sack and filled it with the mystic water. Half of his mission was complete.

Meanwhile in the village, chaos and turmoil were filling every space and corner. The villagers were in panic, for the visions of an oncoming foreign onslaught was true. There were battleships coming in from the farthest reaches of the ocean, sightings of gargantuan armored men all bigger than the village's tallest citizen were spotted on the ship, swords so shiny the reflection could be seen from miles away could also be seen on the ship.

In a hut in the village, the final fate of the entire country was being foretold; in his death bed the aged and withered Datu Silver Swan gave the prophecy. His nearly toothless gums were flapping and his thin tuft of white hair was swaying in the breeze, as if giving a signal that the news was to be bad.

Then, Raja Silver Swan opened his mouth for the last time. His raspy voice echoed throughout the hut, his tone was urgent, and so was his news.

"This... this omen...

I feel that it is the start of a new era for us...

I see visions of us being constantly fought over...

War after war on our sacred grounds... all for territory...

I see all kinds of people coming...

All of them bring a fight and a treaty....

I see that after the storm clears...

What's left of our country is worthless...

I see shattered dreams littering the skyline of our once magnificent country...

I fear for our country... I fear for the integrity of our ways...

I fear for the elimination of our culture...

If... Datu Puti fails to return... I am afraid our last stand will only be fruitless...

Farewell... please take my heed..."

And with that, Rajah Silver Swan fell limp in his straw bed. His breathing ceased, and an unnatural coolness spread throughout his body. Rajah Silver Swan, the leader of the Yunno tribe for as long as anyone can remember was dead. The panic in the village ceased for once, but was replaced with an uncertainty that pecks at the very core of everyone's soul.

Everyone huddled in prayer; for it has been three days since Datu Puti left. Each passing day the fear grew stronger and uncertainty went from just looming above everyone to marching around in their head like a small army of Nazis.

Back on the island of Bayag-Ra,